


keep me near

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11.07 coda, Episode Tag, M/M, cas rides a motorcycle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's mild outside, for November. Which doesn't explain why Dean’s hands are shaking a little as they run over the bike’s handlebars. She’s a beauty, a 1940s Triumph, gleaming black like the Impala. It had been inexplicably hot the first time he saw Cas sitting on her, so much so that he'd shamefully gotten a little hard in his jeans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep me near

**Author's Note:**

> a very late 9.07 coda where cas rides a motorbike because it's hot and I wanted him to

“Are you coming back?” Dean blurts, as soon as Cas answers.

“This library holds--”

“Cas.” Dean grits his teeth, tries not to crush the phone in his fist. “Are you coming back?”

There's a faint rustle, like maybe Cas sighed or sat down or ran his hand through his hair or something. “Soon. Maybe. Dean, I can be more helpful out on the road, scouting libraries, following Metatron’s trail.”

“What trail? There is no damn trail.” Dean doesn't know how to tell him that his place is here, in the bunker. Doesn't know how to ask for him to come home. His hand clenches on his thigh.

“Dean, are you okay? Do you need--”

“No. I mean. Yeah, yeah I'm fine.” Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “Just got back from seeing Donna again so. I'm good.”

“Okay,” Cas says. He doesn't say anything else for a while. Dean just listens to him breathing hundreds of miles away, pictures him surrounded by old books and dust.

“Listen, I'm uh, I'm making banana pancakes,” he invents, then remembers it's the middle of the afternoon and he's a fucking idiot. “Not right now. For breakfast, I mean. Tomorrow. Or, the day after. Whatever.”

Cas makes this little sound. They're his favorite, banana pancakes. Even when everything tastes like molecules, he likes Dean’s banana pancakes the best.

After a pause just a beat too long, Cas asks, “Do you need me to bring syrup?”

Dean doesn't quite physically crumple in relief, but it's a close thing.

 

 

Cas turns up fifteen hours later, the motorcycle Dean set him up with roaring down the track to the bunker just as a pale dawn mists behind him, the sun too thin to really push through the clouds. Dean’s sitting outside on the steps with a steaming cup of coffee, too worked up to be sleeping. He’s been awake since three, wondering when Cas would arrive, thinking about him on that bike on some busy, dark highway.

It’s quiet when Cas kills the engine. Still. Just the scrape of stone as Dean pushes to his feet and comes up to meet him.

“Hi,” Cas says, once he’s lifted off his helmet. His hair's a disgrace. But his eyes are smiling, maybe a little tired, his lips chapped from the wind.

“Hey,” Dean comes up and passes over his half-full cup, which Cas sips from gratefully. Dean shivers. He’s happy though, so pleased that Cas is here. Before he'd left Dean had just gotten used to having him around, hearing TV themes 24 hours a day and the slow shuffle of socked feet padding around the halls. The bunker’s a lot quieter without Cas in it.

“Want to go for a ride?” Cas asks, lips twitching. He looks at Dean steadily over the top of his mug. Part of Dean wants to say yes, to climb on and press himself against Cas’s back and fly down the highway with the wind on his face, but he stops himself. Shakes his head.

“Another time. C’mon, food.”

 

 

Sam’s still sleeping and Dean selfishly hopes it stays that way for as long as possible. He wants Cas to himself for a little while, even if all they’re doing is making breakfast. Cas is slicing bananas, frowning in concentration as he makes each cut exactly a quarter inch from the last one and pushes the knife through so precisely that Dean's torn between laughing at him and flicking batter at his head. He thinks about the possible outcomes for each. He thinks about it for so long that in the end he doesn't do anything at all.

Cas did bring maple syrup. He produces a tiny bottle from his coat pocket with “pure and organic” stamped across the label. It looks a hell of a lot nicer than the Mrs Butterworth’s sugar-free shit Sam always makes him buy.

“Ha, Sammy would pitch a fit if he saw this,” Dean snorts, drowning both their pancake stacks in the thick and gloopy liquid remorselessly and dolloping whipped cream on top of that.

“I guess we’ll just have to eat it all to hide the evidence,” Cas shrugs, and Dean wants to kiss him. Right there in the kitchen, coffee breath be damned. But Cas moves, oblivious, taking his plate with him to the table.

He eats like he hasn't in days, like it’s more than molecules to him, and he gets cream on his chin and inhales two more cups of coffee before he finally asks, “So, how are you, Dean?”

Dean bristles reflexively. “I told you, I'm fine.”

Those goddamn blue eyes stare straight into him, gaze measured, careful. Cas doesn't call Dean out on his bullshit or say anything else. He looks and looks, then asks easily, “I was wondering if you'd take a look at my bike? It's been pulling subtly to the left the last day or so.”

Dean exhales, relieved. “Yeah, of course.”

 

 

It's mild outside, for November. Which doesn't explain why Dean’s hands are shaking a little as they run over the bike’s handlebars. She’s a beauty, a 1940s Triumph, gleaming black like the Impala. It had been inexplicably hot the first time he saw Cas sitting on her, so much so that he'd shamefully gotten a little hard in his jeans.

Cas talks about mundane, boring shit as Dean tinkers with the engine. He comments on the weather, then how many episodes of his favorite shows he's fallen behind on, which segues into a pretty intense meta about Doctor Who. Dean listens. Cas’s voice is soothing, his low sedate rumble a balm to Dean’s persistent anxiety.

There’s nothing wrong with the motorcycle, as far as Dean can tell, which leads him to suspect that Cas lied about there being an issue in the first place. Dean should probably mind but he doesn’t, because the crisp autumn air feels nice on his face and having grease on his hands is better than blood and this is something he _can_ do, something he’s sure about. There’s not much else like that these days.

He stands up, wiping his hands on a rag. “So, uh, you’re all set. She’s good as new.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas places his palm on Dean's shoulder and just for a second he lets himself lean into it a bit. Cas doesn't move away, either. His thumb digs a little into Dean’s collarbone.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean asks, half-uncertain, “You can like--see shit again now, right?”

Pretty ironically, Cas squints. “See shit?”

“Say, uh, say someone was wanderin’ around soulless or--or something. You'd be able to tell?”

“Of course,” Cas tells him, then fixes him with a piercing look, “Dean, are you--”

“I don't know,” Dean snaps, shrugging off the hand which is suddenly scalding on his skin. He starts pacing. “I don't know, okay? Sometimes I, I wonder. Because it's like… it's like I'm back but also I'm not? I don't--fuck, I don't even know.”

“The fact that you're even worried about this should tell you something, shouldn't it?” Cas points out. He steps in front of Dean, forcing him to stop. Dean thinks about reaching out for him, but he can still feel the oil on his hands, smudged over his knuckles, stuck under his fingernails. Cas deserves better than that.

“Yeah, but. What if I'm back but not--but not all the way?” It comes out like a whisper.

“I would know,” Cas says instantly. “Because it's _you_ , I would know.” He places his hand on Dean’s face and Dean's knees tremble with it. “Your soul is still there, Dean. I can feel it. It's so bright, so _good_. It's as beautiful as it’s always been.”

Dean kisses him. It lands a little off-center at first, on the corner of his lips, until Cas tilts his head and then it gets really good. Dean sinks into it, helpless, letting Cas’s tongue push inside his mouth and the hands on his face anchor him there, close. His own fingers catch on the soft material of Cas’s coat and he slides his arms underneath to palm Cas’s thick waist. The silk lining feels cool against his skin. He doesn't care about the grease anymore.

“This is--Cas, _fuck_ , wait,” he grits out, sloppy and mushy against Cas’s open mouth. “Do you--do you know what you're doing here? This won't be easy, you know that right? I'm not easy.” He doesn't stop to think if he himself knows what he's doing because there's no way he's giving this up now, he's been desperate for too long, wanted it too much. He's greedy and selfish. He prays that Cas won't tell him to stop.

“Easy is overrated,” Cas says, his lips curving up into a smile against Dean’s jaw, his teeth scraping lightly a second after. A soft noise catches in the back of Dean’s throat and his hands slide around to the small of Cas’s back and then down to grab his ass, pulling their hips flush, because Dean’s a filthy fucking liar and he's really easy if it's for Cas, preferably naked and on top of him.

“Okay then,” he says, which is a level of commitment that's practically on par with a marriage proposal coming from him.

Cas is looking at him again but this time he's goddamn glowing, his thumbs stroking Dean's ears because he's a weirdo, and his lips are kiss swollen, and Dean’s imagining unholy things to do with stubble burn when finally Cas nods and agrees, “Okay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
